In the Long Run

I was disturbed by an incident in Wal-Mart this morning. I was browsing through the children’s books and toddler toys, looking for a baby gift. I noticed a cute young girl, about four years old, down the aisle playing with first one toy and then another. She seemed oblivious to my presence, or to anyone who walked down the aisle, and quite content to be playing alone. I waited for a mother, a babysitter, or a sibling to appear and scold the child for wandering off, but even after about ten minutes, no one had come to claim her.

Then the child approached me. “Can you take me to the bathroom?” she asked. I was horrified, really. Where was this little girl’s parent?! I asked if her mother were in the store. “She’s shopping. She told me to stay here.” I really couldn’t believe it. I know we live in a seemingly small and safe community, but the world in general is a dangerous place.

The girl told me her name was Chloe. Then she added, “I have four names. My whole name is Chloe Ann Marie __________.” Four lovely names, but not a single loving caregiver. Perhaps that sounds a bit harsh. But I find it extremely negligent and bordering on child abuse to purposely leave a child alone in a large department store.

I immediately contacted a nearby store manager, who got on the store intercom to take care of the situation. I don’t think it would have been appropriate for me to take Chloe to the restroom, even though I know I am a trustworthy adult. The fact is, Chloe didn’t know if I could be trusted, and neither did her mother know what kind of adults might be in the store in the children’s toy aisle.

I’m not suggesting that we teach our children to be afraid and mistrustful of people, and especially of strangers. But certainly we need to educate them about potentially dangerous situations and how to avoid them. And above all, as responsible adults, we need to make sure we are not culpable of placing our children in those dangerous situations. I hope that Chloe’s mom realizes that in the long run, a loving parent provides protection, and not just a pretty name.

Posted by Cyppy at 9:36 PM  3 comments

When I was young, I was often a little anxious around my father because I considered him to be very rigid, and sometimes harsh in his discipline. My father has mellowed quite a bit over the years. Now he’s an easy-going, pushover grandpa that plays Dominoes with his grandchildren, takes them on walks, and gives them rides on the riding lawn mower.

Through the years, and through the changes, I’ve always respected my father, and have come to realize that his dominant personality has influenced me in positive ways. I’ve learned frugality, goal-setting, and even tenderness from my dad.

Dad has always been a penny-pincher, a natural consequence of growing up extremely poor during the depression. He certainly knew the value of a dollar, and how to get the most out of it. I remember trips to El Paso, TX so we could shop at Fed-Mart, which I suppose was the discount store of yesterday. He insisted on getting a quality product for his money, but he was careful to find the lowest price for that item.

My father was quite disciplined when he set a goal, whether it was to fix an ailing automobile or appliance, to learn to play the electric organ he bought, or to assemble his own computer. He was quite versatile in his interests, and he attacked new challenges with intelligence, ingenuity, and intensity. He seemed to be successful at whatever he put his mind to doing.

Although he was often stern, my dad had his sensitive side. He didn’t express his love for us verbally too often. But I remember family meetings in which we were all gathered, perhaps not necessarily willingly. It was on those occasions that he told us how proud he was of us, and that he loved us. I recall being somewhat surprised that my austere father had a catch in his voice.

When I was about six or seven years old, I longed to have a walk-in playhouse. I pestered my parents to buy me one, not really appreciating what it might cost, and was sorely disappointed when they said it was too expensive. So I was elated when my dad said he’d build me one. He drew up his own plans for a playhouse that had a working door, and shutters that opened and closed for windows. The clever design incorporated hinged walls that folded flat for easy storage. Dad worked in his spare time to bring the project to fruition to please his insistent and impatient young daughter. I was thrilled, and spent many happy hours in that playhouse. I felt quite special, and perhaps a little superior, that my dad had made that playhouse just for me.

In that single project my dad brought together those qualities of frugality, goal-setting, and tenderness that still affect me positively today. I appreciate his good example, and hope that in the long run, I’ve been able to beneficially influence my own children because of the lessons I’ve learned from him.

Posted by Cyppy at 7:55 PM  2 comments

I stock up regularly on Dollar Store reading glasses. I deposit them on the headboard in my bedroom, in the drawer in the living room end table, on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen, on the fireplace mantle downstairs, in my home office desk, in the bathroom drawer, in the car, in my coat, in my purse, in my work backpack, in my running fanny pack…you get the idea.

You see, I don’t see. At least, I don’t see things up close very well anymore. It’s a maddening and irritating reminder that age is creeping up on me, something I only admit in hushed tones. My long distance vision is still quite sharp, and I don’t need glasses when I drive. Vanity keeps me from wearing bifocals. So I have my granny glasses in various designs and colors for when the situation warrants them.

I know pretty much what I can and cannot read without glasses. Street signs, scandal rag headlines, the microwave clock: yes. Telephone books, newspapers, fat grams on package labels—definite no’s. But there’s also the limbo zone, that in-between reading which is almost legible…but not quite. I was caught there yesterday.

At the beginning of my women’s meeting at church, I noticed the pianist ransacking her bag. I knew the look, because I’ve had it before. It was the agitated “Where are my glasses, confound it!” look. She looked panicked, as she needed to play the piano, and it is an obvious advantage to be able to see the music. I quickly offered her my reading glasses (the wire-rimmed pair stashed in my church valise zipper compartment). “Don’t you need them? Aren’t you leading the music?” she hesitantly asked, but then reached out and grabbed them as if they were a life preserver. I smiled confidently, and replied, “I know most of the hymns.”

As I stood in the front of the room to lead, still smiling, I suddenly remembered that I had picked an unfamiliar hymn for the opening song as the lyrics had seemed to go well with the lesson. My smile became plastic as I realized this could be a problem. Quickly I shoved the music stand all the way down to move the hymnal as far away from me as possible. Yes, I could now barely read some of the first verse and it looked like the time signature was 4/4. Whew! I could do this.

I finished the first verse with only a few slips—perhaps no one heard me say “brother” instead of “burden,” and “within my heart” instead of “without a voice”. Hey, honest mistakes. But oh my. The words of the second verse, sandwiched in between verses one and two, were impossible to read. There just wasn’t enough white space around them and the black script might as well have been in Chinese, for as well as I could read it. However, the ladies did not seem to notice as I kept my mouth moving and uttering vague patterns of diphthongs and phonemes, in a somewhat melodic fashion. Yet the whole scenario struck me as so comical that I stifled giggles as I sing-song babbled my way through the second verse.

Verse three deteriorated still, until we got to the last musical phrase, in which a natural ritard allowed me sufficient time to squint, read the final admonition, and vigorously lilt “Come unto him! Come unto him!”

I sat down, smugly satisfied that I had ended on a good note, as it were, and the pianist handed me back my glasses. I began reading the words of the hymn that had been a total mystery to me while we were singing. One phrase nearly caused me to guffaw out loud: “Come unto him…Ye erring souls whose eyes are dim…” I’m sure my long run of unintelligible lyrics at that point of the song could not have been more appropriate.

Posted by Cyppy at 5:36 AM  2 comments

My teacher asked us to explain that line from Hamlet, and most of us responded that it meant to always speak and act in accordance with one’s beliefs and ideals. And because we were young, optimistic, and not yet jaded by the world, we also assumed that Polonius was advising Laertes to act with integrity and honor—sage advice from a loving father. I was a bit disillusioned when my teacher, Mr. Taylor, offered another possible meaning.

“Maybe Polonius was instructing Laertes to watch out for “Number 1”, to put his own wants and needs above everyone and everything else—in essence to be chiefly concerned with promoting his own self-interest.” As I re-read the passage and thought about it, I realized it was a valid interpretation, although not one that appealed to my innocent altruism. I wanted to see people as good, generous, and benevolent, not selfish, narcissistic, and self-absorbed.

“To thine own self be true.” Recently I’ve mused on the relevance of those two interpretations of that Shakespearean line, as I’ve contemplated what it means to live a “true” life. As in my youth, I still think now that it means living with integrity. It means adhering to principles and standards that are moral and decent. It means doing the right thing, and for the right reason. Often though, selfish desires, and egotistical wants that we perceive as viable needs, motivate our actions. We are fiercely loyal, but primarily to ourselves and our self-serving, and often, arrogant, agendas. We justify and rationalize choices that, even in the making, we realize are not entirely square with the character to which we aspire.

The road to self-actualization twists and winds and at every turn there is a new situation that challenges our commitment to be true to ourselves. In many of these situations, if we do not suspend our patent self-absorption, we will find ourselves actually backtracking. Living up to our potential ultimately requires self-sacrifice. It is an arduous, long run that is fueled by resilience and persistence, patience and endurance.

Posted by Cyppy at 9:47 AM  5 comments

My youngest son is spending the week at Boys State. In just a few short days, he transformed from the soldier of fortune combating alien invaders (see previous post) to a formal statesman concentrating on issues and affairs of state government.

There is a family precedent for his attendance at Boys State. His two brothers attended the program after their junior years in high school, and his sister was a Girls State delegate. Even their father attended Boys State many years ago. That leaves just me. I am the family’s lone civic disappointment.

At my high school, a student body election determined who would be the Girls and Boys State delegates. My junior class had about 400 students, and I was not particularly well-known or admired, or by any means, one of the “popular” people. This reality was instrumental in my decision not to run for Girls State. I had the desire to participate in the program, but at the time I convinced myself I made a pragmatic and sensible decision: I would not run because I would not win what I concluded would be a popularity contest. Looking back on the decision now, I acknowledge that I didn’t run, less because I did not think I could win, but more because I could not bear to lose.

A person severely limits his potential if he only attempts things that he already knows he will be successful in doing. This is not truly winning, because a true winner is not someone who hates losing. A winner is someone who wants to win badly enough that he is not afraid to risk losing in order to obtain his goal. In my Girls State decision, I dreaded the thought of losing so much that I did not even try to win. I was definitely not a winner, even though I avoided what I thought would have been a humiliating loss.

I know of a capable, qualified man who has applied unsuccessfully several times for a community position. Is he a loser? Not at all. Despite disappointing setbacks, he understands that his value and worth as a person are not based on acquiring this position. He continues to strive for his goal, because, to him, the attainment of it is worth the risk of an unsuccessful attempt.

From my vantage point now as a much more mature adult, I see that in my Girls State experience, I could have claimed victory regardless of the election outcome. I could have been a winner if I had been able to conquer my fear, and my concern about public opinion. I could have been a winner if I realized that a loss did not mean I was a total loser, or conversely, that a win enlarged and defined my self-worth. Such distinctions and conclusions that separate events and others’ perceptions and opinions from one’s own ego were not obvious to me as a 16-year old girl who was very confident about some things, but painfully insecure in others.

Today I would run for election to Girls State, even against the odds. I’ve learned that being successful by playing not to lose sometimes produces only shallow satisfaction. In the long run, being willing to sustain a loss can be a foundation for securing a gratifying win.

Posted by Cyppy at 9:49 AM  3 comments